


All You Had to Say

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [29]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Feelings, M/M, Mutual Pining, Rank Disparity, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 13:10:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18411317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Hamilton receives an unexpected visit.





	All You Had to Say

The Nelson is not a ship of many quiet moments. Even for a Starfleet vessel—with its baseline of danger and adventure no matter the assignment—the Nelson faces more than her share of seemingly insurmountable crises.

The fact that she keeps surmounting them anyway is a testament to her crew—and to the general who commands them.

The few calm interludes tend to come during maintenance windows. Ship-wide shore leave is only ever available when the Nelson puts in to port for repairs or system enhancements. Standard enough for a fleet vessel, but since these are the only moments of reliable quiet, the entire crew looks forward to them with impatience.

Hamilton looks forward to the knowledge that, for a time, the ship will be out of harm's way. But as to the promise of quiet…

Alexander Hamilton has never really known what to do with quiet.

Which means when the Nelson docks and most of the personnel disembark, Hamilton remains behind. He is not actually part of the tiny skeleton crew that will continue on limited duty for the duration—the vessel can't be truly emptied—certain vital systems will always require overseeing. But Hamilton would happily cover some shifts if it freed someone else to properly enjoy a week and a half of shore leave.

Washington refused to let him volunteer. There are strict procedures to ensure fairness, it turns out. Hamilton is not up in the rotation, so he receives full leave whether he wants it or not.

That’s fine. He can focus on other things, other work, personal projects. Even his commanding officer can't actually order him to leave the ship while he's on leave—not without a sound reason—so there's nothing to prevent Hamilton from doing exactly as he pleases.

And he pleases to remain primarily aboard the Nelson. Emerging occasionally to socialize with his friends who are far less stubborn than him, but refusing to accept the assignment of more spacious guest quarters on the station. He holds fast in this insistence, even when Hercules points out that the guest quarters have real showers.

" _Actual water_ , Alexander," Hercules says with an expansive gesture.

Hamilton shrugs and smiles and does not alter his plans. He's never been fond of bathing in water anyway. Sonic showers are far more efficient, and far more comfortable than the chill that comes when the hot water deactivates. But he also doesn't bother to correct Herc's misapprehension that he should _care_. It seems a silly thing to argue about.

The ship itself is a ghost town. Even the skeleton crew largely manages to depart for the station between shifts. Hamilton doesn't blame them; he simply does not share their priorities.

He’s alone in one of the mess halls tonight—location chosen for the ample table space and the fact that with the ship so empty _no one_ will venture to deck thirteen for a meal—and he has his work spread across three separate tables, tugged clumsily together into a crowded corner. He would paint a ridiculous picture if anyone were to come through the door in this moment. With all the possible screens and science labs and even the holodeck available, this scattered chaos of pen and paper must certainly look unnecessary.

But Hamilton is writing. He is _synthesizing_. And paper has always helped focus his brain in ways a computer doesn't. For all that he does not usually have the time or the spacial capacity to indulge this fact, he is grateful for the opportunity now.

When he hears the smooth hiss of the mess hall door behind him, he has half a mind to turn and tell whoever it is to _go the fuck away_. Instead he bites his tongue and raises his head from his work, twisting to look over his shoulder.

He is instantly glad he didn't grouse.

" _Sir_." He caps his writing implement—an antique fountain pen that he only breaks out when he is especially stumped—and rises to face his general. "I didn't know you were aboard."

He honestly didn't expect to see Washington for the duration of their stopover. That's usually how it goes. The highest ranking guest suites on Federation outposts are impossibly luxurious, and with them comes the expectation that those of appropriate status will actually _use them_. There are any number of drains on a ship commander's time and attention—this is not truly a shore leave where Washington is concerned—and Hamilton is sincerely shocked that Washington is _here_. That he has managed to evade the endless parade of briefings, training, diplomacy, and mandatory socializing, to find Hamilton in the time between.

"I found I missed our chess games. I hope you won't mind if I interrupt to request a match."

"You— That's—" Hamilton swallows. "Of course I don't mind."

Washington collects the heavy game board and pieces from the storage unit near the replicator bank. When he approaches Alexander’s haphazard array of notes and papers, he arches one eyebrow and scans the mess with what looks like sincere interest.

"What are you working on?"

"A treatise on fluctuating cross-galactic currencies, and their impact on adjacent systems." He's been working on it for literal years—keeps expecting someone else to publish parallel research and render his work moot—because fascinating as he finds the topic, it will always take a back seat to Starfleet.

Washington's eyes widen. "I didn't realize your interest in galactic finance ran to writing academic treatises. No wonder you don't sleep."

Hamilton grins, a little sheepish, but pleased that his answer didn't make Washington's eyes glaze with disinterest. The quietly impressed look his general gives him is _not_ the response Hamilton usually garners.

"I dabble a little." He shrugs. "But it can wait. Let's set up at a different table. Trust me, no one else will want to eat here. The real party's on deck six." Of course, by 'real party' he means half a dozen crew members at the absolute most, all restless and subdued and unhappy about being aboard the Nelson.

He and Washington play two games. The first ends with unprecedented speed, victory going to Hamilton. It's not like Washington to lose so quickly; he must be distracted as hell. With difficulty Hamilton resists the urge to ask what's wrong.

Their second game lasts significantly longer. Washington must set aside whatever is derailing him, because he efficiently puts Hamilton on the defensive. They take their time, playing a methodical game yet pausing frequently in favor of conversation.

Mostly their chosen topics are light, with one pronounced exception.

"Did you come back to the ship just to see me?" Hamilton asks the question quietly. It's not a cautious query, but considering their entanglement, surely he has a right to know. He's _missed_ Washington since they arrived at space dock, never mind how short a time it's been. He is abruptly desperate to know if Washington misses him too.

After several wordless heartbeats, Washington breaks from their inadvertent staring contest and turns his gaze out the viewport. Hamilton has convinced himself he won't get an answer by the time Washington—still not looking at him—speaks.

"I tried to manufacture some pretext. It seemed the prudent thing to do. But having failed, I came anyway."

Hamilton's chest warms, his heart swelling at the admission. It’s an uncharacteristically candid confession from the man who, so very recently, wouldn’t even admit to jealousy at the thought of Hamilton in someone else's bed.

"I'm glad." Hamilton smiles even though Washington continues to stare out at the stars. When the lack of further reply threatens to turn awkward, Hamilton reminds his general, "It's your move, sir."

They finish their game. Before Hamilton can suggest a rematch—he is not ready to part ways—Washington slouches in his seat and speaks in a voice of obvious displeasure. "I need to return to the station. There's a diplomatic presentation I’m expected to attend."

Hamilton tries to take heart from the fact that Washington is clearly not happy to be leaving. It isn't much consolation.

When they rise in unintentional unison, they end up standing so close together that Hamilton loses his balance and sways precariously backward. Washington's hand is warm when it shoots out to catch him, curling just above his elbow and holding on. Even once Hamilton is steady the touch lingers, and Hamilton feels his brows rise with unspoken questions.

There is familiar intensity in Washington's eyes. And normally Hamilton would know what comes next. Washington's expression will shutter and his hand will fall away. He'll take a step back as though something has startled him, putting an appropriate amount of distance between them, belated but stubborn. He will hide the fact that he feels flustered and guilty, even though Hamilton knows his general too well to be fooled.

But Washington's touch does _not_ fall away, and he doesn't retreat. Instead, Washington stands utterly—perfectly—immovably still as one second stretches into several.

Hamilton also remains motionless, staring up into his general's eyes. Terrified that whatever this is, he's going to jinx it.

Then Washington's free hand rises to his face, warm palm curling along Hamilton's jaw. Nudging his head back deliberately. And now Hamilton can't breathe. Can't think, can't believe Washington is touching him.

_Sir_? The word gets trapped unspoken in his throat, and his tongue sneaks out, licking dry lips.

Washington's gaze drop to his mouth at the nervous gesture, and fuck, they're standing so close together that Hamilton can _see_ the man's pupils dilate. There is hesitation in the way Washington still does not move. Guilt in the way his gaze returns to meet Hamilton's once more.

Or maybe that's _not_ guilt Hamilton sees in Washington's expression for once. Maybe it is something far more complicated. Because another moment and Washington is leaning closer. Slow but determined. Taking Hamilton's mouth in a soft, searing kiss.

Hamilton breathes a disbelieving sound, but his eyes fall shut and he presses forward. He offers every wordless encouragement he can as Washington adjusts his angle just so and nudges his tongue past Hamilton's parted lips.

Fuck, Hamilton's heart is beating so fast. He curls forward against Washington's chest and wraps his arms around his general's waist. Holding on because he doesn't quite trust that this is real.

He remembers another time. A different Washington. An encounter that _wasn't_ real.

_I knew he wasn't you when he kissed me_.

Hamilton remembers the look of horror when he confessed this fact. He remembers how certain he was, with no other information, because his general would never have made so brazen a move.

This is different. A different, more tentative kiss. A different fragment of potential. A different moment.

Or perhaps he and Washington are the ones that are different.

He is startled but not especially surprised when Washington abruptly steps back. It's a jarring loss. One moment the warmth of powerful arms holding him, the next an utter absence of heat as every touch disappears and Hamilton is left holding empty air.

But when he opens his eyes, he doesn't find the show of panic he expects. The usual shadow of guilt is there, but it's subdued this time. Muted. And there is maybe even a glimmer of something else alongside.

"I'm sorry," Washington says, though at least he doesn't stoop to calling Hamilton 'Colonel' the way he usually does when he's putting lost distance back between them.

Hamilton swallows hard and does not quite manage to contain a retort. "You know damn well I don't need an apology." Not for this. Never for this. God, he would _beg_ Washington to kiss him again if he thought his general would actually listen.

"Nonetheless," Washington starts.

Before he can make whatever unwelcome point he intends to articulate, his comm badge interrupts with a chirp. Someone from the station's command hierarchy, reminding Washington about the diplomatic engagement to which he is very nearly late.

"You should probably go," Hamilton says unhappily when the comm line cuts off. He doesn't _want_ Washington to go. But whatever strange new terrain they've stumbled into, he sure as hell won't get Washington to hear him out in the next thirty seconds. Better to part ways with their business unresolved, then return to the conversation on steadier footing.

Hamilton can be patient. It's not his default setting, but he _is_ capable from time to time.

"Goodnight, Alexander," Washington says, and departs without another word.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Patience, Correction, Enhance
> 
> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me. (And have set up a **[Hamilton/Washington Community](https://whamilton.dreamwidth.org/)** over there, just a heads up to anyone who might be interested :)


End file.
